The American Dream
by Phosphorescent
Summary: Everyone wants their piece of it, right? Tiva banter post 7x06, with a side of McGee and Gibbs.


___Disclaimer: I do not own or lay claim to anything even tenuously associated with NCIS; it belongs to various individuals and corporations who are considerably more talented and well-off than myself. I am only playing with the aforesaid characters, situations, settings, etc. for my own amusement and am making no profit whatsoever from this (other than the bettering of my writing skills and my own amusement). No copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

___Set after 7x06: Outlaws and Inlaws._

* * *

_"Let's see – I'm a white male, between the ages of 18 and 49, with a loud mouth and a gun. I _am_ the American dream!" – _Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, Jr.

* * *

"Did you know that the term 'American Dream' was currencied by the author James Truslow Adams in the 1930's?" Ziva said suddenly, looking up from her computer.

Smirking, Tony said, "_Coined_, Ziva, not currencied. 'Currencied' isn't even a word."

"But that does not make sense! If 'coined' is a word, why is 'currencied' not? They are both forms of money."

"Sure, but one is a word and one isn't."

"I highly dislike your language," Ziva muttered. "It is so illogical."

Raising an eyebrow, Tony said, "If you pass your citizenship test, it will be your language too. Are you sure you want to be stuck with it?"

"If you are trying to convince me not to apply for citizenship, that is a very poor attempt."

"Now why would I do that?"

"I do not know. Perhaps because you obtain great pleasure in hazing me?"

"Me?" Tony said, looking mock-wounded. "I'll have you know that I am nothing if not supportive of new agents at NCIS."

"Supportive," McGee muttered disbelievingly from the safety of his desk. "Right."

"Did you say something, McGeek?" Tony asked, swiveling around in his chair.

"No, nothing," McGee said quickly, hands held up defensively in front of him.

"That's what I thought," Tony said with satisfaction.

"I believe that McGee was expressing skepticism at your profession of goodwill," Ziva told him smugly.

McGee sent her a glance that pleaded with her to just drop the matter, but Ziva ignored it.

"Is that so?" Tony asked McGee.

"Well… yeah," McGee said.

"I am _hurt_, Agent McGee," Tony said dramatically, "that you would doubt my intentions towards new recruits at NCIS. Why, I am kindness itself to those under my command."

"So supergluing McGee to his keyboard was merely your way of making him feel welcome, yes?" Ziva said deadpan.

"Right," Tony agreed.

Rolling her eyes, Ziva returned to her previous subject. "According to the research that I have done since we last talked, the American Dream is that if you are intelligent, talented, and industrious, you will succeed. Not that any idiot can be successful."

"Ah, ah, ah," Tony said, shaking his head in disappointed remonstrance. "That's just what they try to fool new immigrants into thinking. The reality is, if you're a loud, lucky idiot, you'll prosper here."

It was now Ziva's turn to arch an eyebrow.

"So by your definition, if you are the American dream, then you are an idiot."

"Exactly!" Tony said. "Wait…"

McGee snickered as he watched the realization sink in on his fellow agent's face.

"Thank you, Tony," Ziva said, smirking. "I believe that I understand things much better now."

"Well, yeah," Tony replied, quickly recovering. "As an American, I have a duty to explain these things to you."

"Oh really?" Ziva asked.

"Really," Tony said, flashing her a grin and propping his feet up on his desk. "Allow me to enlighten you further. A crucial part of the American Dream is the house with the white picket fence, a car in the driveway, dog in the yard, and 2.5 kids."

"You say that _you_ are the American Dream, yet to my knowledge you have none of these things."

"Not _yet_," Tony corrected her with a lazy wave of his hand. "Besides, just because I'm not Ward Cleaver doesn't mean that I'm not living the dream."

"I do not know who that is."

"Ward Cleaver? Leave it to Beaver?" At Ziva's blank look, he shook his head sadly. "You were deprived as a child."

"Because I did not play with rodents?"

"It's a TV show," McGee explained.

"About beavers?" Ziva said skeptically. "I do not see how that would be very entertaining."

"No, about an idyllic suburban family in the 1950's," McGee clarified. "'Beaver' is the youngest boy's nickname; Ward is his father."

"Ah," Ziva said, comprehension dawning in her eyes.

"See, the great thing about America is that I don't have to be Ward Cleaver," Tony said, waxing philosophical. "But the opportunity is always there."

"That does not make any sense," Ziva said.

"Sure it does, Zee-vah. In America, you can be whoever you wanna be."

Her brow crinkled, Ziva said, "Surprisingly, that was almost comprehensible. You are falling out on the job, Tony."

"Falling _down_," Tony corrected.

Ziva growled in frustration, before continuing.

"Also, you said that two and one half children is part of the American Dream; exactly how does one get half a child? I doubt that citizens routinely cut their children in half." Her tone was crisply sarcastic.

"Hey, if it was good enough for Solomon, it's good enough for us," Tony said.

Ziva stared at him.

Throwing his hands in the air, Tony admitted, "OK, fine, we don't actually divide kids in half here. Geez."

"And since that is the case, what constitutes a half child?" Ziva asked too-patiently.

"It's an expression," McGee said, taking pity on the Mossad officer. "Statistically speaking, the average number of children each U.S. family has is 2.5."

Ziva nodded, throwing him a slight smile. "Thank you, McGee. That makes sense."

She couldn't help but wonder, however, how Tony knew the tale of the Judgment of Solomon. She'd never thought him the sort to read religious writings, let alone the Tanakh.

"Ziva, Ziva, Ziva," Tony said, shaking his head in mock-disappointment, "I'm shocked."

"By what, exactly?"

"Your disinterest in the American Dream, of course," Tony said casually.

"I do not understand how you drew that conclusion," Ziva remarked, brow slightly wrinkled. "Merely because I did not… how do you say it?... slaver over your tale of lotteries and orphans does not mean that I do not desire to 'live the dream'."

"You want the picket fence and that whole shebang?" Tony asked curiously.

"I… do not know," Ziva said hesitantly. "I have never had occasion to think about it before. It would have been foolish to even consider such a thing while I was part of Mossad. And… there are other issues to consider."

"Not what I asked," Tony said quietly. "Is it something you _want_?"

His eyes locked with hers, and she had to work to control her breathing.

"I do not waste energy wishing for things which I can not – or should not – have, Tony," Ziva replied, equally quietly. "There is no point to it."

But visions of a little girl like Amira – or Tali – danced in her mind's eye as she spoke. A little girl with curly hair and brown eyes, a _home_ filled with laughter; and her heart ached with a longing so fierce that it surprised even her.

Brushing off her melancholy with an abrupt briskness, she said, "So what is the latest news on our missing petty officer?"

"Glad _someone's_ working," Gibbs said from behind them.

"Boss!" Tony said, jerking around in surprise. "Didn't see you there."

Raising his eyebrows, Gibbs lightly swatted the back of the younger man's head.

"According to Naval records, Johnson was married to a Leann Harper," McGee said, drawing up the picture of a pretty, black-haired woman on his computer. "I did some digging, and guess who took out a several _thousand_ dollar life insurance policy on her husband two weeks before he died?"

"What did I tell you," Tony interjected smugly, "It's always the spouse."

"You do not know that, Tony," Ziva protested.

"You've gotta admit it's suspicious," McGee said, backing Tony up.

"Very well, I suppose it is a bit… fishy, yes?" Ziva replied. "But that does not necessarily mean that she is behind her husband's murder."

"Only one way to find out," Gibbs said calmly, turning his gaze back onto his bickering team. "Bring her in."

"On it, Boss," Tony said, grabbing his gear.

Ziva and McGee scrambled for their badges and guns.

As they stepped into the elevator, Ziva's eyes briefly met Tony's, and something that Leyla had said inexplicably flashed into her head.

"_Sometimes the most significant moments in your life happen without any choice at all."_

This – choosing to make her home here?

It was never a choice at all.

This is where she belongs.

* * *

___A/N: I discovered NCIS this past summer, and was hooked after a few episodes. Some of the characters took a while to grow on me, but once they did, they were like a fungus that refused to be excised. (Yeah, that's right; I just used a gruesome metaphor to describe my fan-ishness.) At any rate, since I'm pretty new to the fandom, I'm still struggling to get a feel for the characters. Therefore, any and all feedback would be highly welcome. ;-)_


End file.
